


PLEASE sign my buttcheek

by leewrites



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (even tho its april), Canon-Typical Addiction, Canon-Typical Drug and Alcohol Use, Christmas Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mistletoe, Pre-Canon, canon-typical angst, friendship fic, fuck lax brooooos, hanging mistletoe so u can kiss ur cute bf and getting kissed by ur weird friend instead, just jack zimmermann things, possibly ill advised drinking, pre-Canon Jack Zimmermann Angst, probably ill-thought out tattooing, what a surprise, whoops theres angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leewrites/pseuds/leewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been seven years, Jack had to give in eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PLEASE sign my buttcheek

**Author's Note:**

> also known as "three times shitty asked jack to sign his butt and the one time he did," "shitty knight is a good friend" or "fuck lax bros"
> 
> also sorry for my spelling and grammar and shit its late and ive been awake for 18 hours/ ill probably fix it up another day lol
> 
> ETA: haha fixed it, also added another chapter cause thATS WHAT I DO APPARENTLY

It starts in freshman year.

 

_/ - \\_

 

Its not the first party Jack's gone to, not even the first kegster, but it's the first one that he's gone to and not disappeared within an hour, he's feeling good. Tired and a bit achy from the game earlier that night but satisfied, at least for now. Loose and easy in a way he so rarely is. 'You're allowed to relax,' Dr. Dea's voice says, advice from so many of their sessions over the summer, 'you're allowed to have fun. It's ok.'

 _It's ok_ , he thinks to himself, his cup just has soda in it and he'd turned down the pot brownies a couple of poetry bros had offered him and yeah, it's... _fun._

His hands are shaking and he kind of wants a drink, something harder and stronger that crappy, too warm, beer; something that would _burn_ on the way down, but he's ok. He doesn't _need_ it. And then Jack spots him, a guy, vaguely familiar, definitely an athlete, smirking at him. As Jack watches the guy lifts his hands to his face and mimes snorting something and laughs, and it-

It-

It shouldn't be a big deal, it's not like Jack _doesn't_ know what people think about him, what the news say about him. That he was a fucked up party boy, getting by on his daddy's money and name and that he couldn't handle it in the big leagues. He _knows_. But somehow, for some reason, it hits him so much harder then than it had the first time some creep had asked him about doing coke. Harder than when he'd been helping coach the pee-wee team and one of the parents had asked why they let a drug addict around their children. And Jack just- He needs to-

He makes it two feet and slams into someone, the guy _reeks_ of pot and beer, but his voice when he slurs out, " _Brah..."_ is vaguely familiar and when Jack glances down he recognizes him. 'B' something but usually goes by-

"Shitty, man you didn't tell me you knew _Jack Zimmermann_." It's the guy, he's right at Jack's back now, and with Shitty they're boxing him in and it's like the whole world is shrinking and he can't- he _can't_. He has to go. "Zimmermann should know where the good shit is yeah?" he adds, mouth twisted into a sharp smirk. And Jack can place him now, he's Bronson one of the lax bro's from across the street from the Haus. He'd stare at Jack everytime he went to the Haus and mutter comments just out of Jacks hearing. Jack should've never come tonight, he's going to have a fucking panic attack in the middle of the party and won't that be the fucking poisonous cherry on top of the shit cake this night's turned into.

Maybe Shitty can see it, maybe he can see the panic in Jack's eyes, the way all the blood has drained from his face, how his hands are starting to shake hard enough to make his soda slosh out of the shitty plastic cup. Or maybe he doesn't see any of it at all. Maybe it's all in Jack's head, wouldn't be the first thing.

"Jack Zimmermann? Jack _Zimmermann?!_ Broooo, you've gotta like sign something for me," and that, is not what Jack expected to hear. Not what Bronson expected to hear either if the way his eyes widen and he jerks back is any indication. "Fuck, I don't have a pen, shit man since when do you fuckin' come to kegsters? And oh bro," his eyes are wide and bloodshot but they're a lot clearer than they were a few minutes ago, "do you like my 'stache?" Shitty's voice is deadly serious as his gestures to his, admittedly nice mustache. "Fuckin' sick right?"

And Jack sort of bobs his head in what might be a nod, mutters something that could, under duress, be taken as an agreement. He's already thinking about how he can get away, slink off to his cramped dorm room and lick his wounds when Shitty grabs his hands, face suddenly a lot closer that it had been before.

"Bro, Jack, Jackie-O, Jack-Jack-Jack, will you sign my buttcheek?"

And it's such an absurd request, mixed with Shitty's serious voice and the way he's staring into Jack's eyes that he could climb into Jack's skull that he just- Jack starts to laugh. Shitty has to duck back as Jack tips forward from the force of his laughter, when he finally manages to look up, Bronson is gone and Shitty is still standing in front of him, beaming at Jack. "C'mon brah, 'pparently there's away to get onto the roof and chill. Let's find it." And like that, so weirdly easy, Jack and Shitty become Shitty&Jack.

 

_/ - \\_

 

The next time is senior year.

 

_/ - \\_

 

It's not that there haven't been assholes, mainly from the lax house, or that people have stopped assuming Jack is doing drugs, but he's captain now and he's got Shitty and Lardo and Rans and Holster and- And Bittle.

So it takes a lot more for shit like that to bother him, his fingers itch for pill bottles and beer cans less now. Even if it does mean that they itch for other things, like callused fingers wrapped around his own or-

But yeah, Jack's _fine_.

It's not the first time Jack's been asked for his autograph, ever since he was a kid people have wanted him to sign shit. Even if it was 'Bad Bob's kid' they wanted to sign stuff and not 'Jack.' Hell it's not even the first time that _month_ that Jack had been asked to sign something.

He just wishes that people wouldn't ask him when he's trying to study, or when the guys from the team are around. The reminder of who he is, Bad Bob's Son, not just Jack, is always a shock. Like thinking there's more steps then there are and stepping into empty air. It leaves him off balance and shaky, adrenaline rushing. The guys are so good at making him feel like 'Jack' that sometimes he forgets that he's more that just Jack. That he has to be more.

The girl asks for his autograph, blushing and biting her lip and Jack can't say no. There's no reason to and if he does it'll draw attention to it but Ransom and Holster have already noticed and are rising up from their chairs, shoving at each other in an attempt to get to him first. Ransom's bio notes are scattered and Jack's pretty sure the book Holster's meant to be reading for english is sitting half way down one of the aisles from their rush to get to him.

"Oh my GOD, it's Jack ZIMMERmann." Holster gasps, clutching at his face like he's about to faint.

"Oh, Jack Zimmermann--sorry sir, would you sign-" Ransom starts, voice breathy as he tries to yank off his shoe for Jack to sign, Shitty leaps over the table to throw himself at Jack, clinging to his arms.

"PLEASE sign my buttcheek." he begs, smooshing his cheek into Jack's and rubbing. Jack can feel Shits' mustache scrapping over his face and if he ends up with weird beard burn _again_ Shitty is going in the next snow drift. Jack _swears_. Bittle is giggling softly in the background as Holster tries to yank Shitty away and Ransom hops on one foot holding out his shoe for Jack.

And it's. It's good.

It's good.

 

_/ - \\_

 

The next time is during Jack's rookie year in the NHL

 

_/ - \\_

 

The thing is, Jack is a stress eater. The more worked up about shit he gets the more likely he is to grab the closest fastest thing to munch on. There's a reason why he was fat as a kid after all. He's gotten better though, now he breathes through his anxiety, or goes for runs or works out. His go to isn't just to reach for the nearest edible thing and start eating, and even when he does it's all healthy, meal plan approved shit to eat so it's fine.

But they'd been _slaughtered_ by Edmonton tonight and Jack _knows_ that the press are going to be terrible and he just want's this fucking day to be over. He want's to go back to his apartment and curl up with Bitty and fucking sleep. But he can't cause he has to go and stand in front of reporters and talk about how they 'played as well as they could but the opposition wanted it more' and 'they need to work on their cohesion as a team in order to play the best possible hockey' and that they will 'do their best to make it up to the fans in the next one.' And it's stupid and childish but his fucking side hurts from a hard check in the third period and he's so exhausted and raw that everything is starting to go fuzzy at the edges and he just wants to _go home._

He's right, press is brutal and they keep pushing for more, for reasons and excuses and promises to do better and it takes more effort than usual to bite back the snappy comments he _wants_ to make. He thinks that when he does get home he might cry, just so that he can lose some of this fucking tension. He's barely made it out of the press room, dressed in an uncomfortable suit and lugging his hockey bag when Jack hears the cheers. At first he thinks they're just Oilers fans and he wonders if there's a different way to get to the car park when he hears Holster's voice.

"There he fucking is boys!"

And Jack's being swarmed, Rans and Holster grasping his shoulders, Lardo slipping in to wrap her arms around his waist and mutter, "You'll kill it next time." Bitty pressing in to hold him tightly for notlongenough before slipping away to let Shitty attach himself to Jack like a mustachioed octopus.

"Jack Zimmermann, you fuckin' beaut, lets get shwasted." And then Shitty pulls a marker out of his pocket and waves it in front of Jack's nose, "and brah, you've _gotta_ sign my ass."

Jack shoves Shitty again and has to let the bag drop to the ground as he laughs and laughs. It doesn't drain all the tension, he's going to be hurting from this loss for a while, but here, with these people, he feels so much lighter than before. That doesn't stop him from telling Shitty that he'll never sign his ass thought.

 

_/ - \\_

 

Jack gives in 6 hours after winning his first Stanley Cup.

 

_/ - \\_

 

The feeling Jack gets when he lifts 34 pounds of nickel above his head in a screaming rink is indescribably, it's like getting a hatty, making his mother laugh and kissing Bitty all at once. He keeps thinking, over and over, _I did it. I did it. I really did it._

His team is screaming and Beaker is kissing his helmet, yelling something into Jack's ear and he can't hear anything but his heartbeat and a dull roar of noise. There are easily a couple of hundred people between Jack and where Bitty is standing, hands covering his mouth, crying, in the stands and Jack can't think of anywhere he'd rather be than right there. Always want's to occupy the same space as Bitty. The cup's gone, making it's way through the team but Jack doesn't care, he's only just started making his way over to Bitty when Beaker grabs his arm and starts towing him back to the tunnel. Away from Bitty.

The press passes in a dizzying whirl of noise and colour and Jack couldn't tell you what they asked or what he said. He'll find out later if it was anything bad but right now he wants so badly to see Bitty. To see Shitty and Lardo and Ransom and Holster and the frogs too if they're here. He ducks away from the team, makes his excuses and heads for the car-park. He isn't even fully out of the door before he's dragged into an off the ice celly. Everyone is crying and yelling and Jack's crying too because he never would of made it this far if it wasn't for this group of idiots and he loves them so much.

They all head to Jack and Bitty's apartment, loud and unruly, and get wasted. It's the drunkest Jack's been in a long time but he figures you only win the Stanley Cup for the first time once so it's fine. He spends probably too much time beaming at everyone, Bitty curled into his side and tucked under his arm, trailing his fingers gently down Jacks forearm.

The party starts to wind down and nearly every bit of alcohol in their house is gone when Shitty lurches to his feet brandishing a metallic green marker, "Jack, my brah, my majestic land mer-man, you've _got to_ sign my butt-cheek. _Please,_ brah." And Jack looks and him, looks at all of them and thinks about it. Then slowly he grins, reaches out and plucks the marker out of Shitty's hand.

"Sure Shits," Jack says uncapping the marker with his teeth, "unless you're scared to put you're money where your mouth is?"

Tears glisten in Shitty's eyes and he whisper's an emotional, 'Brah.' Then he drops his pants.

 

_/ - \\_

 

The next day Jack wakes up with a throbbing headache and a phone beeping shrilly as notification after notification come through about people liking his Instagram post. When he groggily thumbs the app open he laughs, there in blurry pixels on the screen, is a photo of Jack and Shitty. Shitty, pants-less, has his back to the camera and on his right ass cheek, in metallic green marker, is Jack's signature. It's captioned, _'Seven years after he first asked me, I've finally signed his ass.'_

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://captainleeee.tumblr.com)


End file.
